


Reason

by angelsdemonsducks



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Hopeful Ending, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, Tim Drake is Robin, Torture, canon what's that?, i've stopped trying at this point, jason doesn't deserve this, nobody likes canon anyway right?, none of them deserve this actually, okay seriously though there is like no canon in this, steph and jason are buddies, superman and talia are in it a little bit too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-19 20:18:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5979796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsdemonsducks/pseuds/angelsdemonsducks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tears mingle with the rain on his face, and slowly, so as not to draw any attention to himself, he steps backward into the darkness of a nearby alley. </p>
<p>"Did you even notice I was gone?"</p>
<p>(aka the one where Ra's isn't there when Talia pushes Jason into the Lazarus Pit, and everything changes because of it)</p>
<p>(On hiatus. I'm sorry.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Revival

When he wakes, he is alone.

It is dark, and cold, and he can’t breathe. Images flash through his mind, disjointed, like an old movie with messed up film.

_ A? _

_ Slam! _

_ Or B? _

_ Slam! _

_ Forehand? _

_ Slam! _

_ Or backhand? _

_ Slam! _

The madman’s face leers at him, and he feels it all over again. The blood, the bruises, the broken bones, the betrayal. The burning.

Up until the end, he believes that Batman will come for him. He believes that Batman will keep him safe, will protect him. In the last few moments, when he’s not thinking about saving his mother, he’s thinking about what to say to him when he arrives. How to apologize for not listening, how to promise to never, ever run off like that again, if only things will go back to the way they used to be.

Even as the bomb explodes, he believes that his father will come.

But he doesn’t.

And now, in this cold, dark, unknown place, he is still alone. 

He opens his mouth to scream, but barely a sound emerges. His vocal cords are raw, and his tongue dry as sand. It comes out as a soft rasp. “ _ Bruce… _ ” He begins to thrash in his confinement, seeking escape, any escape. “Bruce! Please!” The words rip from his throat, barely human-sounding. “Don’t leave me in here!” His breathing quickens, and his hands fumble for something, anything to get him out of here. They fall on the buckle of his belt, and he tears it off, thrusting at the wood above him.

Soil falls all around him and he  _ can’t breathe. _

By the time he reaches the surface, his hands are bloody, and his lungs are full of dirt. His clothes are torn, and he doesn’t know where he is. He collapses on the ground, savoring the feeling of grass under his knees, no matter how much it irritates the cuts littering his body. He’s not dying anymore, he doesn’t think, and that’s what’s really important.

Shuddering and sobbing, he looks up, taking in the vague shapes around him. He doesn’t know what they are, and he doesn’t care. The one shape he wants to see is not among them. His thoughts run at speeds to rival the Flash, and none of them are good.

_ Bruce… _

_ Bruce… where are you? _

_ Why aren’t you here? _

_ Don’t you still love me? _

_ What did I do wrong? _

_ Why don’t you love me? _

_ Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy? _

He staggers to his feet, ignoring his muscles’ screams of protest. He has somewhere to be, someone to find. He turns around and views his surroundings, trying to capture some sense of direction. What he gets is something else.

There is a tombstone behind him, bent and grey. Even in the dark, the name inscribed upon it is legible.

Jason Todd.

He blinks. Isn’t that his name?

_ A? _

_ Slam! _

_ Or B? _

_ Slam! _

And he knows no more for a long time.

* * *

The next time he is aware of himself, he is drowning.

_ No. Nononononnonononononono. Not again! _

He opens his mouth and tries to scream, but water flows in, choking him. Instinct takes hold, and he closes it again, but not before he’s swallowed far too much of the liquid. Everything’s becoming fuzzy again now, his will to fight fading. Would it be so bad to slip away again? The water, once icy, feels warm now, silken, like his bed back at the manor. To give in to it would be just like falling asleep…

_ No. Don’t you dare. _

This is not his own voice, but Bruce’s, and his eyes snap open. He can’t give up, he can’t die again, not now! He needs to go home, to tell Bruce he’s sorry, to promise to always listen from now on. So he uses the last of his fading strength to look up and find the surface.

When he breaks it, there are so many things he wants to do. He wants to scream, to laugh, to cry, to smile, to run and never, ever stop. What he does instead is cough up a lung full of water, nearly slipping below the surface once again. He doesn’t stop hacking until he’s been hauled up to the shore.

“Breathe, Jason,” a woman’s voice orders, and he inhales instinctively at the authoritative tone, though the action sends him into another coughing fit. When he can look up, the face he sees is not the one he was expecting.

“Talia?”

She puts a finger to his lips. “Not here,” she whispers. “All will be explained.”

When she stands to leave, the only thing he can do is follow.

* * *

Escaping is almost too easy. He knocks out the guards by his door and continues down the hallway. He meets no one else, and even if he did, he’d just attack them as well.

Talia hasn’t come to him yet, and for that he is grateful. He doesn’t want to listen to her explanations and manipulations. He knows that the only reason that Talia al Ghul would bring him back from the grave would be to get to Bruce, and he won’t let that happen.

But Talia al Ghul is an expert at getting what she wants, so he is leaving now, before she has the chance.

Truthfully, he doesn’t know whether or not his return is a good thing. When he’s not feeling oddly detached from everything, he is irrationally angry: at Bruce, at the Joker, at the whole world. This is coupled with an intense longing to be home again, though, so he doesn’t mind. And least he knows that Bruce would’ve killed the Joker for what he did, so no one else would ever be hurt by that madman again.

He nods at this thought, even as he makes his way to what he hopes is a landing strip. Yes, the Joker will be gone. There was no way that Bruce would have let him live. Not after taking him away. 

He does indeed find a landing strip. The few that are guarding it are as easy to take out as the ones at his room were, especially when he lets his rage take over.  _ Funny,  _ he reflects.  _ Bruce always said that rage blinds you. If anything, I’m seeing more clearly. _ He smiles at this thought. He can’t wait to get home and see him again, and get out on the streets with him and do what they do best.

He can’t wait to be  _ Robin. _

When he takes off in the stolen airplane, that’s the only thought in his mind.

* * *

When he sees him, he starts running.

He’s in one of the darkest streets in Gotham City, the buildings looming around him, and drug addicts peppering the side of the road. He should probably be nervous; he’s still wearing the clothes that Talia gave him, after all, and he doesn’t have any of his equipment. But when he sees Batman, those thoughts fly out the window, because he knows that at last, he’s found home again. It’s taken too long, but here it is, right in front of him, wearing a black cape and cowl. He breaks into a wide grin, and he opens his mouth to call out, wondering what Bruce’s reaction will be.

_ He won’t believe it’s me, at first. He’ll take me back to the Cave to run a bunch of tests. Even when the DNA testing proves it’s me, he won’t believe it for a while. But then, he will, and he’ll yell at me for being so reckless, and I’ll apologize, and then Alfred’ll come in with tea, and then things’ll be… _

He stops running, not believing what’s in front of him.

_...alright. _

The figure that Batman is busy tying up isn’t some random criminal, like he’d thought. Now that he is closer, he can see the green hair, the white face, the grin.

He can see the Joker.

He’s just standing in the street now. If either of them look his way, they’ll see him, but he doesn’t care. 

Because Batman is capturing the Joker.

The monster who killed him is still alive. 

He sees red.

So, apparently, he’s not worth enough for revenge to be taken. He’s not worth enough for Batman to break his precious moral code for him. He’s not worth enough.

_ He’s not Penguin or Scarecrow or Dent, Bruce, _ he wants to say.  _ He’s the Joker. Barely even human. Please, take him out. Just him. Do it because... Because he took me away from you.  _

_ Please. I thought you cared. _

He doesn’t say it, though. He just stands there, in the middle of the street, both hoping that Batman will look his way and praying that he doesn’t.

Things go from bad to worse.

A boy jumps down from a rooftop, dressed in yellow and green, with a shit-eating grin on his face.

He wants to puke.

“Took care of the thugs,” the boy tells the bat. “You good?”

He seriously wants to puke.

“He won’t be going anywhere,” Batman states, gesturing toward the laughing clown. “Good work, Robin.”

He’s about to puke. How many times had he heard those words of praise from Batman?

Too few.

And now, there’s this boy. This pretender. This... replacement. And the praise is his instead.  


_ You have no right to that!  _ he wants to scream.  _ No right! I’m Robin, not you! _

_ How long did it take you to replace me, Bruce?  _ he wants to ask.  _ How long for you to move on from me and find someone new? _

And then, in the back of his mind:  _ How long did it take you to find a new son? _

Rain begins to fall, drenching his hair and clothes. He doesn’t notice. As he watches, the boy smiles at Bruce, and Bruce… doesn’t smile, exactly, but he comes close. Very close.

Tears mingle with the rain on his face, and slowly, so as not to draw any attention to himself, he steps backward onto the darkness of a nearby alley. 

And as he watches them deliver the Joker into custody, as he watches them drive away in the Batmobile, one final question echoes through his brain.

_ Did you even notice I was gone? _

Jason turns and walks into the night. He doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please bear with me as far as discrepancies with canon go; I'm only using the comics as a loose reference.
> 
> ... Want to kill me yet? Heh.
> 
> Next Chapter: A timeskip, the Joker, and a crowbar. Again.


	2. Reprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence and torture and the Joker being a psychopath. Also, you might need tissues? Maybe?

It’s happening all over again.

He supposes that he should have expected this, sooner or later. He was never  _ meant  _ to come back. It was a mistake. It was wrong. Talia should  _ never  _ have dropped him in the Lazarus Pit. 

This is just the universe trying to correct it.

_ Though,  _ he thinks dimly,  _ I don’t see why it has to happen this way. It seems unnecessarily cruel.  _

The metal bites into his skin as he shifts his arms. He’s not sure why he does it; he knows that the handcuffs will stay secure, no matter how much he struggles. If he still had a lockpick on him, he could free himself, but his captor was meticulous in disarming him. His gloves, his boots, his belt, the brown leather jacket he’s grown so fond of, they’ve all been taken. The helmet’s gone, too, and he doesn’t know whether to feel angry about that or relieved.

In the past two years, the helmet has meant many things. At first, it was an escape from who he was before, a way to become someone else. It meant that he was the Red Hood, not Robin, never Robin, never again. It meant that he could make his own decisions, escape the shadows of his past, play by his own rules and nobody else’s.

Lately, though, it’s been something else: a prison. He doesn’t want to admit it to anyone, but he’s almost scared of what he’s become. He kills without mercy, and God knows his enemies deserve it, but he worries. If he were to give up his vigilante lifestyle this very instant, what would he do? What would be left of him?

There used to be lines between Jason Todd and the Red Hood. Now, those lines are blurring and disappearing, and he doesn’t know how to stop it.  _ If  _ he can stop it.

If he _ wants _ to stop it.

He chuckles grimly, though it comes out as a wheeze. Pondering on this doesn’t do him any good at the moment. It won’t get him out of this situation.

It’s very likely that nothing will.

The door to the warehouse opens again, letting an icy breeze slip through, and he resists the urge to moan. The cold seeps through his bones, and the pain he’d been doing so well at ignoring returns with a vengeance. It’s too much to catalogue; he only knows that his entire body hurts.

_ Well, not my entire body, actually,  _ he amends.  _ I think my big toe is holding up pretty well. _

“Sorry about that,” his captor says. “It’s so  _ hard  _ to find good help these days.”

The sick thing is, the apology is probably genuine.

“I weep for your pain,” he replies, forcing his words out through a mouth full of blood. “I really do.”

His captor moves closer, and he can see it all. The purple suit, impeccable, but for the blood staining it. The green hair, sticking up all over the place. The horrible smile, never once wavering.

The Joker crouches down next to him, ruffling his hair. “That’s good to know.” He cocks his head, the smile widening. “Now, where were we again?”

He glares. He doesn’t have anything else to say to this monster, though, that’s partly because he’s not sure that anything but blood will come out if he opens his mouth again.

“Oh, right.” The clown’s expression darkens, and suddenly, there is a fist breaking a few more ribs. He moans, but doesn’t allow anything more than that to escape. He won’t give his killer the satisfaction.

“We were talking about how you ruined the greatest joke of all time!” the Joker continues. 

He’s not sure how the Joker found out that he was back. He’s been careful. He’s stayed far, far away from Gotham, from all who might recognize him. 

It was hard, at first. He wanted revenge for the wrongs he’d been done. He wanted to make everyone suffer. Even… no,  _ especially  _ Batman.

But the feelings faded with time, and rational thought took charge. If he really wanted to live his own life, he would have to leave the past in the past, no matter how hard it was to do so. He didn’t forgive, and he most certainly didn’t forget, but isn’t the best revenge living well? Though, his definition of living well might be a little more twisted than everyone else’s, all things considered. And he’s definitely not living well right now.

“Ah ah ah!” the Joker exclaims, shaking a finger in his face. “Pay attention! No drifting off!”

He stretches his mouth into something resembling a grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he rasps. “I’m having the time of my life here.”

The Joker purses his lips, and he knows immediately that this was the wrong thing to say. “Yes, let’s have a chat about life, while we’re here. Or, more specifically, how you’re still in it.” Another blow, this one to his arm. He hears something snap, but the pain is barely noticeable, compared to everything else. “You see, I distinctly remember killing you. It was… oh, four years ago now? Five?” Through blurred vision, he can barely see the monster flapping his hand. “Well, that’s not the point. But you didn’t get out of that warehouse before it blew, you couldn’t have! So, tell me… how are you here?”

Blows begin to rain down again, different from the previous ones.  _ He… has a crowbar, _ he realizes.  _ Where did that come from?  _ He discards the thought a moment later, deeming it unimportant. The fact is that he has one.

Bones shatter. Bruises form. Blood flows onto the floor. And he can’t hold back a scream.

“Oh, dear,” the Joker sighs. “It seems you won’t be able to answer the question. Oops. Pity. I was hoping to ask another one.” He leans down to one ear. “Once and for all… A or B?”

The crowbar comes down again, and he begs for unconsciousness.

* * *

When he comes to, the Joker is still there.

He wasn’t expecting anything differently, of course, but a part of him was hoping that it would be a dream. That he’d wake up in his dingy apartment a few states away.

It’s not to be, though.

“Well, I suppose I need to be off,” the clown drawls. “It’s been fun, old times and all that. But I’ve got business in town.” He walks towards the door, pausing to look back. “No bomb this time, I’m afraid,” he says apologetically. “I simply didn’t have the time. But I’m sure that doesn’t matter.” He grins, teeth gleaming. “After all, it’s not as if anyone’s coming for you.”

Then, the monster is gone.

He doesn’t make an attempt to stand. There would be no point; he knows he can’t do it. At least one leg is broken, and by now, he’s lost too much blood to make a worthwhile effort to move.

_ Damn it. _

He doesn’t  _ want _ to die now. Not here. Not because of  _ him.  _ Not again.

But it doesn’t seem as if he has a choice. Because the madman was right about one thing: no one is coming for him. No one knows he’s alive, and even if they did, they probably wouldn’t save him anyway.

Being alone has never felt so lonely.

_ It’s not like my death matters much, though. It’s turning out to be just like my life: painful and pointless. _

He laughs at this observation, proving his own point about the blood loss, because it’s really,  _ really _ not funny. Maybe he has a concussion, too. Wouldn’t that be the icing on top of the cake?

_Make that a_ _probable concussion, then._

Suddenly, inexplicably, his train of thought dislodges, and he remembers the night he made Dick, during one of the rare times he was actually being an older brother, watch Nightmare on Elm Street with him. The movie scared the crap out of him, and though Dick never admitted it, the older man was scared too.

In any case, even as the world faces around him, the rhyme floats in his head, the words twisting to fit his situation.

_ One, two, Joker’s coming for you. _

_ Three, four, bloodstains on the floor. _

_ Five, six, it can’t be fixed. _

_ Seven, eight, they’re all too late. _

_ Nine… ten… _

_ Robin’s dead again… _

Everything goes black.

* * *

He isn’t ready to die.

The thought comes to him not like a stroke of lightning, but like a lazy stream, flowing through his mind until he acknowledges it.

He isn’t ready to die. He’s come too damn far.

Since his resurrection, he’s hit a lot of low points. After seeing that kid in the Robin costume, it was all he could do to stop himself from eating a bullet. There were other times, too, when he looked over the side of a building and considered how easy it would be to just… fall.

But he never did.

And he realizes that it’s not what he wants to do now.

With an effort, he wrenches his eyes open. It doesn’t help much; everything is blurry, and out of focus, and dark. But he thinks he can make out where the door is, and that’s the important part. If he can reach the door, he can open it. If he can open it, he can escape. If he can escape, if he can  _ get out of this warehouse _ , maybe he can survive.

He begins to crawl.

The effort is short-lived, though. His body is too broken to make it very far, and the motion only sends him into a coughing fit. Blood splatters against the floor and drips down his chin, and he stares at it in frustration, then back at the door.

_ I won’t make it to the door, _ he realizes,  _ and even if I did, it’s sure to be locked, just like last time. _

The memories flood him, but he shakes them off, even as he begins to resign himself to his fate.

He’s going to die. 

He’s going to die, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

He’s going to die, and no one’s going to know.

He’s going to die, and no one’s going to miss him.

* * *

He’s not sure how much time has passed when he hears the door burst open. He’s lost track of everything, and even the pain is starting to dim.

But these voices… he recognizes these voices, and that’s enough to make him start paying attention, if only for a little while longer.

“He’s not in here, boss,” a man says. “I don’t think he has been for… Oh, God.” Footsteps sound, rushing toward his prone form. Others follow close behind… two pairs? Maybe? It’s hard to tell. Focusing is taking more and more energy, and he’s not sure how much longer he can keep it up. “There’s a hostage in here. He’s…” Two fingers press to the side of his neck, and the man inhales sharply. “He’s still alive.”

“What condition is he in?” another voice questions, cold and clinical. He stiffens. He  _ knows  _ that voice, though at the moment, he can’t remember whether he loves it or hates it.

“It’s bad,” the first one replies. “He might not make it to the hospital.”

“That’s a uniform he’s wearing,” a third voice interjects sharply. This one is young, and only slightly familiar. But it’s enough to confirm who he’s listening to.

Suddenly, hands take him by the side and flip him over, causing every nerve in his body to yell out in protest. Colors flash against his eyelids, and he screams until he can’t anymore, until his vocal chords give out.

“That’s what the Red Hood wears,” the third one says. “Only, without the helmet and.... what? What is it? Why are you...”

Even as the voice trails off, he knows the game is up. He’s still wearing a mask, cracked and bloody as it is, but that won’t matter. They’ve seen his face with one on often enough. Despite the years that have gone by, they’ll recognize him.

“Jason…?” the first voice whispers, and he decides that it’s high time to enter the conversation. With no small amount of force, his eyelids open, and he finds himself staring into the masked face of Dick Grayson.

He wants to say something along the lines of, “Fuck off, Dick,” but he can’t form the words. Blood fills his mouth again, and he chokes on the coppery liquid. It’s suddenly hard to breathe.

“Don’t try to talk,” Dick orders, eyes annoyingly full of worry, and… are those tears? “It’s… it’s going to be alright, Jay, I promise.”

_ Yeah, right,  _ he wants to snort.  _ Where was that worry when I was actually around, huh? You weren’t even at my goddamn funeral. _

But he can’t. Because everything is going black again, and the words won’t form. His eyes slip shut, the effort to keep them open too great.

“No no no no no! Stay awake, Jaybird! Stay awake!”

The voice is frantic, pleading, but he doesn’t care anymore. Everything is warm in the blackness he’s sinking into, very warm, and it promises him peace at last.

Before he gives in fully, he thinks he hears another voice, too, calling his name, but that doesn’t matter either. He has no real reason to stay anymore, does he? Here, where everything hurts and no one cares.

It would be alright to fall asleep.

So Jason does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally headcanon that Dick and Jason watched Nightmare on Elm Street together. Seems like something they'd do, I think, during one of the (rare) times when they were actually getting along.
> 
> On another note... cliffy, anyone? Heh.
> 
> Next Chapter: Bruce tries to figure out what happened to Jason and why he's alive, and everyone is really angsty.


	3. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don’t write Bruce as an emotionless asshole, so… prepare for OOCness this chapter? I probably got Talia all wrong too… *sighs* Oh well, here it is anyway. Don’t kill me?

“Six broken ribs. A broken collarbone. A dislocated shoulder. His left humerus is broken in two places, and both wrists are sprained.”

With every injury Leslie ticks off, Bruce’s heart sinks.

“His right femur is broken, along with his left tibia. At the very least, he has a severe concussion. Then there’s the significant internal bleeding, and…” She breaks off, shaking her head. “Bruce, I can’t guarantee he’ll wake up at all.”

He passes a hand over his face. “Just… just do what you can for him,” he says, though the crack in his voice makes it sound more like a plea. He supposes that it is.

“Of course I will,” she replies, her voice sharp, “but you still haven’t explained to me how he’s alive in the first place.”

His gaze falls on the boy in the bed, hooked up to an IV, beeping medical equipment surrounding him. He is still, too still, and Bruce remembers the day the coffin lowered into the ground. The day he buried his own son.

_What’s happened to you, Jason? Why didn’t you come home?_

He shakes his head, unable to meet Leslie’s eyes. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I don’t know.”

She squeezes his shoulder as she leaves the room, but it barely registers in his mind. Too many doubts and fears have taken up residence there, and with them questions, questions to which he doesn’t know the answers.

Footsteps come up behind him, but he doesn’t have to turn to know who it is. The gait is unmistakable. “Hey,” Dick says, his voice hollow. “How’s he doing?”

“It’s bad,” he replies, voice emotionless, running on autopilot. “He might not wake up.”

“He will,” Dick insists. “He has to. It’s…” He breaks off, running a hand across his face. He seems to have aged five years in the past two hours, and Bruce feels about the same way. “God, Bruce,” he says at length, “how could this happen? How could he… I just don’t understand.” He looks from Bruce to the bed, then back to Bruce again. His eyes shine with too many emotions to identify. “How is he alive?” he whispers. “Why didn’t he come tell us?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce says again. He looks his son in the eyes. “I don’t know, Dick, but I intend to find out.” With that, he strides from the room. He has a mission now, something that he can focus on, needs to focus on.

He doesn’t think about what will happen if he can’t find the answers.

* * *

It’s with great reluctance that he asks Superman to meet him at the graveyard. If he had the time, he wouldn’t get anyone else involved at all, but the sooner he finds these answers, the better. And he know that Clark will keep the situation quiet if he asks.

Quieter than it would be if he had the coffin exhumed, at any rate.

“Not exactly a great place to meet,” the Kryptonian remarks. His tone is mild, but his brow is furrowed in concern, and Bruce can tell that he knows something is up. “So, what do you need? I assume you didn’t call me here for coffee.”

Without replying, Bruce turns and leads him further into the graveyard, not stopping for the other man’s questions. He comes to a halt only when they are beside the gravestone. It looks exactly the same as the last time he was here, but it’s not what’s above ground that concerns him. Meeting Clark’s gaze, he gestures toward the soil. “I need you to tell me what you see,” he says.

Clark frowns at him, likely beginning to become worried for his mental health, but he humors him. He doesn’t say anything at first, and for a moment, a terrible, lengthy moment, Bruce fears that he might be wrong. But then: “My God.” His gaze snaps up, blue eyes wide. “What’s going on, Bruce?” he demands.

Bruce shakes his head. “What’s down there?” he asks again.

Clark exhales, glancing down at the ground again. “There’s no body in the coffin,” he states, voice low, “and the lid’s collapsed. There’s nothing down there but dirt, and…” He hesitates, probably gauging his reaction. “Bruce, there’s dried blood on the wood, and I think a few broken fingernails. It looks like the coffin was forced open from the inside.”

Bruce closes his eyes, his theory confirmed.

_Jason came back to life in his coffin. He crawled his way out of his own grave._

“Bruce…” Clark trails off, and he looks at him.

“I’ll tell you after I find out myself,” he replies to the unspoken question.

He leaves the graveyard not long after, though not before casting a look at the angel statue standing watch over Jason’s grave, the statue he placed there in the vague hope that it would do what he couldn’t, that it would take care of his son in death as he had so completely failed in doing in life.

_What did you see?_ he questions. _And how long ago? What happened to my son?_

The statue doesn’t answer.

* * *

“So, uh,” Dick starts, collapsing into the chair by his younger brother’s bedside, “Bruce has gone out. I think he’s trying to figure out what happened to you.” He sighs, shaking his head ruefully. “Any other time, I’d kick his ass for not being in here with you, but… well, you know Bruce. He doesn’t deal with things like we do. He needs to be out there doing something, or he’ll go crazy.” He regards Jason’s still face, and wishes that it weren’t so pale under the bandages and blood. “I can’t blame him. I want to know as badly as he does.” He reaches out and takes his brother’s hand. It is cold and clammy, but he can feel a faint pulse threading through the wrist, and right now, he needs the reassurance.

He needs to know that his little brother is still here.

His little brother is here. It’s an odd thought, after so long. He remembers his reaction to hearing the news that Robin was dead. He’d punched Bruce right in the face, and it had felt extremely satisfying.

“He was a kid, Bruce!” he’d shouted. “A kid! Fifteen years old! How could you let it happen?”

Bruce hadn’t replied, had only turned away. The devastation that momentarily flickered across his face had almost been enough to make Dick apologize.

Almost.

Now, though, staring at Jason’s still form, he doesn’t know what to think.

He’s always been the first to admit that he wasn’t a very good brother to Jason when he was alive. He and Bruce had been in the middle of a pissing contest, and he’d had the Titans, too, so he hadn’t exactly been particularly interested in getting to know the kid that had taken his costume.

But then there had been those times when they _were_ like family. Like at that baseball game they’d gone to together. Or that time Jason had convinced him to watch _Nightmare on Elm Street_ with him.

And then, after his death… his greatest regret had been that he hadn’t been enough of a brother to him. A little voice in the back of his head had nagged at him for months: if he’d been there for Jason, would he have felt the need to find his mother at all, to seek out a way to fill the gap that, looking back, was so obviously there?

Would he still be alive?

Eventually, he’d silenced the thought. Even if it was true, there was nothing he could do about it anymore. He’d had his chance and lost it.

But now…

His grip on Jason’s hand tightens. His form looks so small and frail under the covers, though he knows that that’s not the case, that Jason’s spent God-knows how long running around as a vigilante (and that’s something he doesn’t really want to consider the ramifications of. Not now, anyway.). “God, Jay,” he whispers, throat tight and voice cracking. “We should have been there for you. This should never have happened.” He doesn’t quite know what he’s referring to: the present situation, Ethiopia, or something else entirely, but that doesn’t make his statement any less true. “I… God, Jaybird, please wake up.”

Jason doesn’t twitch, and Dick lets the tears fall.

* * *

Bruce supposes that he should have anticipated this. If he’d been less emotional, he would have, but try as he might, he can’t look at this objectively. It’s his son that he’s trying to track, his son that’s lying in the Cave in a coma. His son.

So, really, he should have known that Ra’s al Ghul would be involved in it all, somehow.

What he doesn’t expect is being intercepted by Talia en route.

“Beloved,” she greets, every inch the heiress she is. “I received word that you are seeking my father.”

He stays silent, watching her warily, waiting for her next words. Talia wouldn’t come talk to him without a very good reason for it, and he has a feeling that he knows what that reason is.

“You knew.”

She lifts her chin slightly. “Yes,” she answers. There is no doubt in her voice, erasing any thoughts he might have that she doesn’t know exactly what he’s talking about. Bruce grits his teeth, but her next words give him pause. “My father does not. At least, not to my knowledge.”

“ _What?_ ” he growls, mind racing. Everything thus far has led him to Ra’s and a Lazarus Pit, but if Ra’s doesn’t _know_ , as Talia claims… “ _You_ brought him back,” he realizes. “Why-” He doesn’t realize he’s lessened the distance between them to about six inches until she steps back, arms folded. She doesn’t look angry, though, or even irritated.

“Allow me to explain, please,” she says quietly. “There is much you do not know.” She meets his gaze evenly, but there is an indefinable emotion in her eyes. Bruce doesn’t like it. Nevertheless, he motions for her to go ahead. If she’s sharing this information freely, he’ll listen. “What led you here?” she asks. “What pointed you toward my father?”

“It was the only logical conclusion,” he replies. “Jason came back from the grave,” -and damn it, he won’t let his voice falter- “and he is the only one who has access to something that might have caused it.”

Talia inclines her head in agreement. “The Lazarus Pits,” she confirms, and his heart sinks. “Yes.”

Anger rises up in him, and he doesn’t try to quell it. Nevermind the fact that he’s supposed to be _Batman_ right now, Batman, who doesn’t allow emotions to cloud his thoughts; this is his son who was put through hell. “Was it worth it?” he demands. “Subjecting a child to that? Did you get what you wanted?”

“The life Jason was living before I found him was no life at all,” Talia replies, her voice taking on a sharp edge. “My people found him wandering the streets of Gotham brain dead. Muscle memory was the only thing keeping him alive.”

He doesn’t react outwardly, but his heart begins to shatter. “When?” he asks, not trusting himself to say anything else.

“It was more than two years after his death.” She eyes him, her expression hard. “He’d been on the streets for some time by then.”

He doesn’t respond. He can’t. _He was still in Gotham. He was in Gotham for years, and I didn’t find him._

“I’d hoped that I could revive him by a more natural way, but nothing worked. I knew that time was running out, if I wanted my father to remain unaware of my activities, so yes.” She sighs. “Yes, I put Jason in the Lazarus Pit.” She blinks slowly, and her face softens. “And it worked.”

* * *

Tim enters the room cautiously, as if making a sound would disturb its inhabitant. It’s ridiculous, he knows, but he can’t help it.

“Hello,” he mutters, looking anywhere but at the still, too-pale face. “My name’s Tim. I’m… uh, I suppose I’m your little brother.” He stops there, realizing that he’s not quite sure what to say. He can’t really say something personal; the only way he knew Jason Todd was through his pictures and the news reports, and the file on the computer that Bruce doesn’t know he’s looked at.

Besides, it’s not as if he’ll hear him.

He continues anyway.

“I was confused when you first became Robin,” he begins. “I’d been used to watching Dick for so long that when you first appeared, with all your street-cockiness and your heavy punches instead of acrobatics, I didn’t know what to make of you.” He frowns and stares at his hands, contemplating his next words. “But then I figured it out. You were just as much Robin as Dick was, and… it’s because of you that I have the chance to be Robin now.” He hesitates again, finally working up the courage to look at his face. It’s thin, and slightly scarred, and there’s a hardness to it even in a coma. Tim doesn’t want to imagine what he’s been through since his death.

His death…. that was where it all began, wasn’t it? His death had sent Batman spiraling down a dark road, and that’s why he’d become Robin in the first place. To save him from that darkness.

He hasn’t succeeded completely. Sure, Batman isn’t beating criminals to the point of death anymore, but the fact remains that the second Robin’s death left a void that Tim couldn’t quite fill.

Not that he would want to.

“I hope you’re alright with it,” he says. “My being Robin, I mean. I wasn’t trying to replace you, I swear.” He swallows heavily. “Sometimes I talk to your costume, you know. The one that’s hanging in the Batcave. If I can’t figure out what to do, sometimes I ask you what you think.” He laughs. “It’s stupid, I know, and Bruce would have my head if he knew. I think he’s scared that if I act too much like you, I’ll… well, the same thing will happen to me.” He tilts his head, considering the still form. “They say that if you talk to someone in a coma, they’ll hear you, but I sort of hope that’s not true. If it turns out that you’ve actually heard all of this, I’m probably going to die of embarrassment.” He stands. “Please wake up, though,” he murmurs. “I’d really like to meet you.”

With that, he leaves the room. He feels uncomfortable there, as if he doesn’t have a right to talk to this man at all.

Perhaps it’s true. Only time will tell.

* * *

“What do you mean it worked?” Bruce asks. The question comes out as more of a whisper than anything, but he can’t find it within him to care. He’s given up trying to maintain a mask of dignity at this point.

He just wants to know what happened to his son.

Talia sighs. “I mean exactly that,” she states. “I worried that he would return wrong, or mad, or only partially-functional, but beyond my expectations, he seemed unscathed. It took me a good while to figure out exactly why, but I believe I know the reason.” She eyes him. “His only thoughts upon returning were how to get back to you. His mind was fixed upon it, and that, I believe, is what kept the madness at bay.”

“But he didn’t,” he corrects. “He didn’t come back to me.”

She sighs again. “As far as I can tell, he did. He escaped from my home soon after I revived him, and I let him go. I tracked the airplane that he stole, and he landed it just outside of Gotham City.”

None of this is making any sense. If Jason came back to Gotham, then why didn’t he know about it?

“Why he didn’t go to you, I can’t say. After this, I only kept rudimentary tabs on him. He has trained with many masters, many of them criminals, and many of them killed by his own hand once he was finished with them.”

Jason is a killer. His son is a killer.

Mentally, he knew this. Jason is the Red Hood, and he’s been keeping his eye on the Red Hood. A vigilante that serves his own brand of justice. The only reason why he’d never confronted him was because he seemed to always stay far away from Gotham, so he’d never been a top priority.

Now, though, he is being assaulted by the facts, and he can’t ignore them.

Jason has killed. He’s turned his back on everything he’d taught him, and taken a far darker road.

His son is not the same boy he knew.

No, he shouldn’t think like that.

But he does. He can’t stop himself.

Talia narrows her eyes, as if reading his thoughts. “Before you are so eager to pass judgement,” she says quietly, “perhaps you should question why he felt as if he could not go back to you. He made it to Gotham with full intent of seeing you again, so what changed?”

He wishes he knew.

* * *

Alfred stands by Jason’s bedside, staring down at his former charge. He has changed quite a bit in the past few years. Any hint of childhood that had been present at fifteen is now gone, replaced with sharp features, and even more saddening, no hint of smile lines.

“What have you been doing to yourself, Master Jason?” Alfred questions, his tone scolding, though he expects no response. Not yet, anyway. He fully expects the young man to wake up, and likely sooner rather than later. He is tough, that much hasn’t changed about him, and he won’t let a minor setback such as this get in his way.

Alfred shakes his head and chuckles to himself. “ _You_ would describe this as minor, anyway,” he states. “You’ll likely be attempting to get on your feet before too long, despite the fact that you’ll need months to heal.” His mood sobers at that, as he knows it’s true. Jason won’t actually be back on his feet for a long time yet.

The butler sighs. “You really ought to take better care of yourself Master Jason,” he instructs. “As much as I am delighted to see you home, the manner of your return leaves much to be desired.” He sighs again, reaching out and smoothing down his messy hair. “Wake up soon, Master Jason,” he says. “The manor hasn’t been the same without you.”

And he will wake up, of this Alfred is sure. He considers himself a father and a grandfather to those who live in the manor, and he’s already lost Jason once.

He won’t lose him again.

* * *

Bruce passes Alfred as he enters the room. He doesn’t ask how he is; he can tell from his face that he’s exactly the same.

And he is. Still and pale. If it weren’t for the beeping heart monitors, Bruce would think he was dead.

He shakes the thought from his mind. Right now, imagining his son dead again is more than he can bear.

He collapses into the chair by his bed and runs a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Jason,” he mutters, staring at him. He mentally lists every injury Leslie had discovered, and resists the urge to go and beat the Joker to a pulp. As much as he would like to do so, he is needed more here. He’ll be damned if he’s not by Jason’s side when he wakes up.

“You’re going to wake up,” he states. “You’re stronger than this, Jason. You aren’t going to let the Joker keep you down.” He laughs humorlessly. “Death didn’t stop you, so why should this?” He reaches out and takes Jason’s hand, his mind growing calm for the first time since this ordeal began. “Right now, I don’t care what you’ve been doing. I don’t care about your methods, or how much blood is on your hands,” he says firmly, realizing as he does so that it’s very true. “That can wait. Right now, I just want you to wake up. I want you to be safe.” He looks at the hand he’s clasping. It’s so much bigger than he remembers. “Jason…” He trails off, his voice cracking slightly. “I’m just glad you’re alive.”

“Hn… glad... someone is...”

Bruce blinks, wondering if he heard that right. Slowly, he raises his eyes to Jason’s face and blinks again.

Tired teal eyes blink back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust these guys to say all the things that need to be said when Jason isn’t actually capable of listening.
> 
> Okay, so, for those who might have read this over on my FFN account, this is where things start to get a little different. For instance, I decided to go back and edit and add an actual plot. Or at least fill the plotholes. Of which there were many. *shrugs* I tried?
> 
> Next Chapter: Dick and Tim go after the Joker, and grouchy!drugged-to-the-gills!Jason tries to argue with Bruce. It’s a little one-sided.


	4. Retribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this one took so long. I was out of town for a while, and then a combination of school and writer’s block made it hard for me to get going again. But I’m back now, hopefully to stay.
> 
> Warnings for language, Dick being pretty fucking furious, and Jason managing to be an asshole even while semi-conscious.

He should not be here.

Dick knows this, knows this even as he lunges at another thug and grinds his fist into his face, knows this as he feels bones give way against the impact. Yet, he cannot bring himself to care. If Bruce were here, this kind of reckless behavior would earn him several lectures, but Bruce isn’t here right now.

He takes down another thug, and another, his grin sharp and almost feral. He hasn’t felt this angry in a long time. 

No, he really shouldn’t be here.

“Watch your left!” Tim calls over the comm, about ten meters to his right. Dick is thankful for his presence. Hopefully, it will stop him from doing something stupid.

“I got it!” he replies, spinning to take out the one that was creeping up behind him, apparently attempting to be stealthy. He almost snorts at that. These guys are many things; skilled is not one of them. The Joker has only been out of Arkham for a few days- not nearly enough time to find followers of much caliber.

The Joker. His thoughts turn to his target, and his face darkens further. Somewhere in this building, the clown lies in wait. The clown who has attacked his little brother not once, but twice. The first time was fatal, and this time might be too, so he’ll be damned if he lets the killer get off scot-free. A tiny voice in the back of his head whispers things about revenge and how close to the line he’s edging, but he pushes it aside, because currently, he does. Not. Care. 

The Joker needs to be taken out. The harsher the better.

The rhythm of battle comforts him, and he follows the familiar motions with ease. A jab to the gut here, a heavy blow to the head here; the thugs are dropping like flies. None of them can touch him, none of them can lay so much as a finger on him, because right now, he is Nightwing, and he is angry, and right now, that feels as good as invincibility.

This is coming very close to how Jason always used to feel. The cocky little brat never did have a true sense of danger. His motto was punch first and ask questions later, something that Dick is sure was a product of growing up on the streets. He smiles at the memory. He had found it irritating at the time, but now, he can look back on it, and his brother, with fondness.

Jason Todd, cocky street punk.

Jason Todd, cheeky four-foot-six ball of pent-up energy.

Jason Todd, Robin, little brother.

And now, Jason Todd, Red Hood.

Dick still doesn’t know what to think of that last one. They’ve been keeping tabs on the Red Hood, of course, ready to move after him if he ever proved to be a threat. But he was hard to pin down, always moving from place to place almost as fast as Babs could track him. There was always a trail of bodies to trace, one that he feels is even more horrifying now that he knows the killer is his little brother. But at the same time, the dead were always the worst of the worst: the murderers, the rapists, the drug lords. Those who no one would ever miss.

So, really, while Dick know that killing is wrong, while the very idea of taking a life repulses him, he doesn’t think that crossing the line has made Jason a bad person. Misguided, maybe, especially in his methods, but not bad. He still protects innocents, which is what is truly important.

What puzzles him most is the fact that Jason never came home. He’s been alive for years, that much is clear in so many ways. His face is older, he has to be a good foot and a half taller, and he is covered in scars that he didn’t have before. He even has a streak of white in his hair, and Dick would love to know how he got that.

So, why would he stay away? Why the  _ hell _ would he allow them to continue to think that he was dead? That he was gone? That he was buried and never, ever coming back-

“Nightwing! Nightwing, stop!”

Tim’s voice filters in, and Dick realizes that he must have been shouting for a good minute or so. Reality cuts in sharply, and he freezes. Tim’s hands are on his arm, which is pulled back to rain down another blow on the man before him. The floor is littered with unconscious bodies, all in various states of bloodedness. The face of the thug in his grip has been beaten to a pulp.

“Nightwing, that’s enough,” Tim says softly, concern clear on his face even through the mask.

Dick relaxes slowly, releasing the thug, who slumps bonelessly to the ground. “Right,” he murmurs, “yeah. Sorry.”  _ Shit, that was bad. Can’t let it happen again. Calm, Dick, keep calm. _

Tim gently squeezes his arm and then releases it, stepping back a pace. “You sure you’re alright?” he asks, and Dick can hear the message behind the words.  _ Are you sure you’re okay to be here? If you need to, we can go back. Leave this for another day. _

The thing is, though, they can’t. They can’t wait, not for this. They finally have Joker’s location; they have to take him out. The clown cannot be allowed to hurt, to torture, to kill anyone else. Not tonight.

So, Dick nods. It is a short, jerky motion, which, if anything, only seems to exacerbate Tim’s worry, but it serves. “I’m fine,” he says. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Tim does not seem to be convinced at all, but he nods in return. “Okay,” he says. “He’ll be in one of the back rooms, then. I don’t imagine he has many lackeys left, but he’ll have a trap or two up his sleeve.”

Dick surveys the area. They are in another abandoned warehouse; the Joker seems to have taken a liking to those recently. There is nothing obvious, like C-4 lining the walls or gas canisters, but what makes the Joker the most dangerous rogue is that he is both insane _ and  _ insanely smart: a deadly combination.

This is only proven by the fact that he caught Jason, Jason who has been so careful lately, careful to avoid Gotham and all its inhabitants. All its baggage.

Dick doesn’t want to know what the clown resorted to to have Jason at his mercy.

“Right,” he says at length. “Let’s go get him.” He doesn’t wait for Tim to agree, instead starting toward the back of the warehouse. To his credit, Tim only hesitates a moment before following him.

The first room he busts into is empty.

As is the second.

And the third.

The fourth is not.

The Joker grins at him from where he sits behind a table. The room seems empty otherwise, but Dick knows better than to assume. He steps into the room just far enough to allow Tim to follow, surveying the area for the traps he knows must be there.

“Hello, Nightwing,” the clown says. “Ooh! And Boy Wonder too!” The grin widens. “Why, what brings you to my humble hideout?” He breaks into laughter. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

Dick does not take the bait, as much as he wants to. Tim remains still beside him.

“Say,” Joker continues, “will Batsy be coming? I really would like to talk to him. Or is he… busy?”

His hands clench. He can’t stop them. “Just us tonight, Joker. I hope that’s alright by you,” he replies, allowing his voice to drip with sarcasm and scorn. If anything, that only adds to the clown’s glee.

“Oh, dear,” he says, standing. Both Nightwing and Robin tense. “I do hope he isn’t ill. Or, did you find the present I left for you?”

_ Did you find the present I left for you? _ The words echo horribly in Dick’s mind as he makes the realization. The Joker went after Jason to get to them. This was their fault.

“I have to say, putting it together was almost more trouble than it was worth. It was such a pain to track him down. But then again,” he sighs, rubbing his hands together, “I couldn’t just let it lie, could I? He was ruining one of my best jokes.” He cackles, long and loud. “So, I just had to do it again. Make it stick this time.”

For a moment, Dick allows himself to imagine what would have happened if Jason had been dead when they arrived. If they had walked into that warehouse to find the cooling body of a boy- a man, now- that they had already thought dead. If they had failed him a second time.

Bruce would have snapped. Dick is sure of it. He probably would have snapped himself.

He’s still not certain he won’t.

_ This _ is the trap, he realizes. This is what the Joker wants. There aren’t any surprises set up in here, because he doesn’t need any. He was hoping that the Batman would come in and finish him off, that he would finally make Batman cross that line. It had almost happened the first time Jason had died, would have if not for Superman, so why not now?

If they had found Jason dead in that warehouse, the Joker would have won. But they didn’t, and so he doesn’t. The joke's on him this time.

“Robin,” he says, no emotion in his voice. “Take him down.”

They lunge forward in tandem, and the Joker is laughing, laughing even as he tries to fend them off. “He was so very brave!” he exclaims. “I couldn’t even get him to scream, poor Hoodsie. He was so certain that no one was coming for him!” His voice crescendos even as Dick smashes his fist into his face. “And he was right! Too little, too late, birdboy!”

Dick sees red. He lets out an incoherent cry, and throws all of Bruce’s lessons about caution and patience and never-give-in-to-your-anger-be-careful-about-your-emotions-Dick out the window. The Joker has hurt them one too many times. Bones crunch and blood splatters, and Dick can only feel vindication.

And then arms are wrapping around him, holding him back, and he struggles because the  _ clown hasn’t paid enough yet goddamnit _ . But there’s someone yelling at him, too, and after a moment, he recognizes it as Tim.

“Stop!” he’s saying. “Nightwing, stop! You’re going to kill him!”

He stops struggling, staring at the Joker’s form, laid out like a broken doll on the concrete. The clown is still conscious, if only barely, and he looks like he would still be laughing, if he were able. With his injuries, the injuries that Dick dealt him in a matter of a moment, a moment and rage, he’ll be in a body cast for the next year. It still doesn’t feel like enough.

“He’d deserve it,” he pants. “He’d deserve it.”

Tim tenses for a moment, and then shifts his grip into something more like a hug. “I know,” he whispers. “I know he deserves to die, Nightwing. But you know it can’t be at your hands. You would never forgive yourself.”

Dick hesitates.

“C’mon,” Tim prompts. “Let’s call GCPD and get back to the Cave. We’ll check on Ja- on Red Hood.”

It takes a moment, but Dick nods, suddenly feeling so, so very drained. He can’t bring himself to regret what he did, what he almost did, though he’s sure it will hit him later in full force. He steps away from Tim and toward the Joker, and Tim lets him.

“Red Hood is alive,” he states, and takes a fierce pleasure in the anger that flashes in the Joker’s face. “You did a number on him, but he’ll be alright.” That one might be a lie, he doesn’t know for sure, but he’s not about to say that. “You lose, Joker.”

They walk out without a backward glance.

* * *

Bruce is not often at a loss for words, but he has no idea what to say here. He’s still having trouble with the fact that this is happening in the first place, that Jason is alive and in front of him, more than an empty suit behind a glass case. More than a reminder of how he had failed, of who he had failed.

Perhaps he is still failing him.

Jason is regarding him now, slightly more alert, his eyes glazed over from the drugs. They are blue, still, but now they have green in them as well, and Bruce wonders if that’s the only thing the Lazarus Pit has changed. Hopefully that is the case, but he hasn’t trusted hope in a long time.

The silence stretches between them, and he realizes that it has been a good minute since Jason spoke. “How are you feeling?” he decides on. It’s a decent way to get the conversation started, at least.

Jason sends him a look that somehow manages to convey both anger and boredom. “Kinda high,” he says, the slur slightly less prominent, but still there. “This stuff is good. How are you?” He laughs a little after that one, and Bruce tightens his grip on his hand. He thinks he can attribute it to the drugs, but the sound has a hysterical edge to it that he doesn’t like at all.

“I’m alright, Jason, but that’s-”

“Of course you are,” Jason interrupts. “You’re always fucking alright. Wouldn’t be the goddamn Batman if you weren’t.” He snort out another laugh and looks up at the ceiling.

Two minutes and it’s already going south.

“Jason, please-”

“Don’t.”

Bruce stops, taken aback at the sudden fury in his tone. Jason still refuses to make eye contact, but his eyes definitely look more green than they did before. They also look more glazed over, and Bruce knows that Jason’s hold on consciousness is slipping.

“Don’t… don’t fucking do that. Don’t pr’tend t’care. You don’t.” His voice is slurring again, his eyes drooping, and Bruce knows that he only has a few moments left before Jason is lost to the world once again.

“You’re wrong, Jason. No matter what you do, there is nothing that could stop me from caring.” It must be wrong, how the words take effort to say. He has been playing the cold general for too long if speaking as a father feels so unnatural. “You’re my son. Nothing is going to change that.”

And then Jason’s eyes droop completely closed, but not before Bruce catches the emotions that flash through them. Anger, doubt, and even a little bit of fear that makes his heart clench to see. But he thinks there is something else there, if only barely.

Hope is a complicated emotion, though, and maybe he was only imagining it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the point where I am officially going to give up on following canon at all. So, here’s the state of things right now: Dick is Nightwing, Tim is Robin. Damian is… about eight or nine? I’ll probably be bringing him in eventually, once I’m more confident that I won’t completely fuck up his character. Regarding the girls, Babs is Oracle, Cass is Black Bat in Bludhaven right now, and Steph is Batgirl and kind of pissed off that she’s been kept out of the loop thus far. Jason is mostly working alone, though Talia checks up on him from time to time and and he’s formed a sort-of friendship with Roy (because I like it, okay? okay). I know the timeline doesn’t make sense, but I’m going to go ahead and dub this earth 51.5 and just focus on the story. It’s an AU anyway, right?
> 
> Phew, sorry, that was long. Anyone still reading? Lol
> 
> Next Chapter: There is a timeskip of a few days, Oracle discovers something concerning, and Jason Todd, meet Stephanie Brown.


	5. Report

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sighs* Sorry about the long wait again. Life’s been busy, especially school, so I can’t guarantee how quick the next few updates will come.

He is running, running without a destination, without a clear purpose other than _get away get away get away._ He is being followed, he knows; he can hear the footsteps behind him, loud as drums against the floor. His own feet feel like lead, but he makes an effort regardless. He doesn’t know much, his mind too confused and panicked, but he knows this: if he is caught, he is dead.

He’s not sure entirely where he is; he thinks it’s a warehouse of some kind, or another type of abandoned building. Whatever it is, he hopes the number of doors he passes will work in his favor when it comes to confusing his pursuer. On a whim, he tries one of the knobs as he passes it, but it’s locked.

Oh, well. He doesn’t have time to stop anyway.

The footsteps grow louder somewhere behind him, and he breaks out into a cold sweat, almost stumbling. He doesn’t even know who it is that’s following him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not completely terrified.

_Run. Run. Run._

The thought pulses through his head like a heartbeat.

_Run. Run. Run._

_Maybe you can escape._

As if in answer to his desperate hope, he rounds another corner, and there it is: the exit. He allows himself a smile and picks up the pace.

_I made it in time. Thank God I made it in time._

He turns the knob and pulls, and the sunlight hits his face in a warm burst and he’s running again, running far, far away from this place and toward freedom, running to-

Only, he’s not. The door is locked.

He lets out a wordless cry of frustration, slamming the heel of his hand against the door, ignoring the dull pain the action brings.

_This can’t be happening. Not again. Not again._

“Poor birdie,” the Joker whispers in his ear, and the crowbar comes down. “How will you fly when your wings are clipped?”

Again and again, the crowbar swings up and down, up and down, forehand and backhand, and he honestly can’t tell which one is more painful. The Joker begins to laugh, his teeth bloodstained and gruesome. He tries to curl up on himself to escape the sight, escape the pain, escape any of it at all, but he knows it won’t work. The door is locked, and he can’t get out. He can never get out.

“You think I’d let you go?” Bruce growls, because it is him now, not the Joker. He’s not Batman either; he is dressed in a simple black suit, like one he might wear to a board meeting or press conference. He holds the crowbar in his hand easily, naturally; it fits in his palm like it belongs there. Maybe it does. “You’re just like any criminal on the street. Any murderer. You belong in Arkham, Hood, and that’s where I’ll send you.”

He wants to protest, wants to cry out, wants to scream and cry and beg, wants to wrap his hands around the man’s throat and _squeeze_ , but he can’t move. He is frozen on the ground like a butterfly pinned to a board, and Bruce sneers at his pitiful efforts.

“You’re weak,” he says. “Making you Robin was the worst mistake I ever made. You were never good enough for it. I should have left you in the alley where you belong.”

He raises the crowbar, and it glints as he brings it down again.

And Jason wakes up.

* * *

 “Whoa whoa whoa! Settle down! Geez! Sorry!”

He has a hand around someone’s throat, he realizes. He’s not putting too much pressure on them, mainly because damn, his arm hurts like a bitch, but it still might be a good idea to let them go. He releases his hold, blinking the last of the fading nightmare from his mind.

“Thanks,” she says, because it is a she, a girl maybe a few years younger than him. She steps back a pace, rubbing at her throat. “Sorry, you were thrashing, and B might kill me if I let you tear your stitches.”

“Batman doesn’t kill,” he says, inwardly wincing at the knee-jerk response. The memories of the past few days are coming back to him; he hasn’t exactly been coherent, but he knows where he is. If he wants to get out of here, it may not be wise to antagonize everyone.

But the girl just raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, okay, true, but he’ll give me the Batglare, and you know how that is. The only thing worse is Al’s I’m-disappointed-in-you face. Which I also do not want. So.” She turns and pulls a chair to the side of the bed, the legs scraping obnoxiously against the floor. She collapses in it with a sigh. “Stephanie Brown. Friends call me Steph. I’d shake your hand, but…” She trails off, looking pointedly at his body. He follows her gaze and winces. There aren’t many places that aren’t covered in bandages.

_Yeah, this’ll take a few months to bounce back from._ A back corner of his mind begins to make plans on how exactly he’s going to get himself out of here, because there’s no way he’s staying in the manor longer than he absolutely has to.

“I get it,” he replies. “Jason Todd. I assume you’re the newest Batgirl?”

She grins. “I assume you’re the infamous Red Hood?” she returns. “Seriously, though, I know who you are. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Great. “That so?”

The grin widens. “Oh yeah, the past few days especially. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of them angst so much before. You should have heard how Dick sounded when he called me over. Like a kicked puppy.”

He snorts. “Yeah, that sounds like him,” he mutters. “They all here?”

She nods. “They’re in the Cave, I think. You’ve got them all freaked out.” She leans in. “Dick put the Joker in a body cast. Nearly killed him,” she adds in a conspiratory whisper. “If Tim hadn’t have been there, I think he might have.”

The pleasure of hearing about the Joker’s suffering vanishes at the mention of the Replacement. He scowls. Steph catches the look.

“Hey, don’t be like that. Tim’s a cool guy. You should give him a chance. I mean, yeah, okay, I’d probably be a little bitter if I were you, but… seriously, you’re a hero to him. Don’t screw it up.”

That surprises him. A hero? Him? Please. If anything, the kid should be trying to distance himself from him. History repeats itself and all that. And with a history like his, he knows exactly how Batman will have been referring to him.

Jason Todd: the Robin that failed.

Jason Todd: the Robin that was too impulsive for his own good.

Don’t be like Jason Todd, Tim. It’ll get you killed.

He almost laughs out loud, catching it just in time.

“I’m a hero?” he questions. “Really? You should tell him to pick a better role model.”

Steph frowns and shakes her head, her blond hair waving back and forth. “What do you think we think of you?” she asks. “Seriously, I wasn’t kidding when I said everyone’s angsting over this. I’ve seen Bruce emote more in the past week than I’ve seen him emote, like, ever.”

“Sorry to cause all the trouble.”

The frown turns into a glare. “You’re as bad as he is,” she mutters. Jason has to keep himself from bristling. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve been doing all these years, and I don’t know what you’ve been telling yourself, but they’ve missed you. A lot. Nothing’s going to change that.”

_That’s the problem. They miss the me who was. But I’m not that kid anymore. In their eyes, I’m not so different from the nutjobs they lock up in Arkham._

_This is why I’ve stayed away._

The words float on the tip of his tongue, begging to be said, but he holds them back. Steph, as much as he thinks he likes her, is still a stranger, and he’s not about to pour his heart out to her. She’s still one of the Bats. He thinks the only reason he’s said as much as he has is because of the drugs still flowing through his system.

So he settles for a shrug. “Sure,” he says. “So, the place still the same as I remember it?”

She gives him a long look, one that tells him she knows exactly what he’s doing. But after a moment, she grins, seemingly deciding to let it slide. “Well, Alfred’s the same as ever for one thing. Ooh! Have you heard about that time when-”

He settles back as she talks, allowing himself to relax, if only slightly. Caught up in the flow of her story, he can almost pretend that he’s not here, that he’s somewhere else entirely, maybe in a cafe on the other side of the country, or, hell, even a hospital might be better than this. He can pretend that every connection he’s struggled to get rid of is not downstairs, probably discussing him at this very moment. Dick, who was finally starting to be like an older brother to him, Alfred, the grandfather he never had, and-

Bruce had once been like a father to him. He may have even called him ‘Dad’ eventually, if circumstances hadn’t gotten in the way.

As it stands, he knows that will never happen. Too much has happened, too much has changed, and he is the Red Hood, killer of killers. Nothing can ever go back to the way it used to be. He’d thought that he had made his peace with that, but now, faced with everything he’s spent so long avoiding, he’s no longer sure.

He will have to face Bruce eventually, though, whether it be minutes, hours, or days from now. That is definitely not something he’s looking forward to.

God, there’s no way he’ll manage to stay here an extended period of time. He’ll go crazy. He needs… somewhere else to recover.

An idea strikes him.

“Hey,” he interrupts before he can change his mind. Steph cuts off, glancing at him with an eyebrow raised. “Sorry, but-” He smiles in a way he hopes looks sincere and not at all like he’s in horrible pain. “-can I make a request?”

* * *

 Tim is watching everyone carefully, hoping that they’ll all keep it together. This situation has been stressful for everyone, but however bad it is for him, he’s certain it’s ten times worse for everyone else, for those who actually knew Jason. It’s obvious, really, obvious in the deep bags under Bruce’s eyes, in the tightly contained fury still showing in Dick’s eyes, in the way Alfred’s voice is so, so very strained despite his attempts to mask it.

He supposes that this is why it’s Steph upstairs watching Jason and not any of them. They’re afraid, he thinks, afraid to face the reality of the situation. They have the Red Hood up there, a criminal who, if he had turned out to be anyone else, they would likely be trying to put behind bars right now.

As it is, though, Tim just wonders how long they’re going to be able to keep the situation from other heroes.

He sighs quietly and kicks his legs back and forth. He is sitting on a table near the computer so he can clearly see what Bruce is doing: reviewing old case files, both those belonging to Jason as Robin and what they have on the Red Hood. The latter isn’t much; Hood has never been a top priority to them. He’s never seemed interested in clashing with heroes or anyone innocent, so for the most part, they’ve left him alone. Besides, the guy is impossibly hard to track, even for them. Tim frowns, wondering if Jason has had help with that. Bruce said that Talia told them she only kept ‘rudimentary tabs’ on him, but he doubts that’s the whole truth. Talia isn’t one to let a loose end like Jason run around with little surveillance. Especially if she actually is trying to keep his existence from Ra’s.

And there’s another thing to consider. Does Ra’s seriously have no idea about Jason? It seems unlikely.

“Heavy thoughts?” Dick asks, sliding next to him. Tim spares him a small smile.

“Yeah, I guess. Kind of hard to avoid them,” he replies. “Does Cass know what’s going on?”

Dick nods. “Yeah, I called her. Babs too, though she’d already found out about it. She’s trying to figure out how the Joker got to him, I think.”

“Right, I’ve been thinking about that too. _We_ didn’t know about Jason, so how did Joker find out?”

Silence falls over them for a moment, only broken by Bruce’s incessant typing. He appears to be ignoring them, but Tim knows better than to think that’s really the case.

After another minute, Dick lets out a humorless laugh, dragging a hand over his face. He looks exhausted, Tim notes, pale and sick. “It’s still kind of hard to believe this is happening,” he mutters. “I mean, in out line of work, dead doesn’t always mean dead, but still…” He trails off, shaking his head. “He’s been gone for years and now he’s here again. And we don’t even know how much of him is actually him, you know?” He sends a desperate look at Tim, wide-eyed and sad. “The Lazarus Pit messes with people’s heads. God knows what it’s done to him.”

Tim doesn’t have a good answer for that. It’s only the truth, after all. “It’ll work out,” he says, but even he can hear how hollow the words sound.

Another silence stretches between them, a quiet burdened with thoughts and emotions that neither of them can bring themselves to voice.

It is interrupted by Oracle coming over the computer’s comm system.

“Guys, I think I’ve got something,” she says. She sounds more tired than Dick, if that’s even possible. There’s another undercurrent to her voice as well, one that Tim can’t identify, but he knows that it can’t be anything good.

Bruce stops typing. “Pull it up,” he orders. The desperation in his voice would be well hidden from anyone who didn’t know him, but Tim can pick it out. The past three years in the costume have taught him a lot about how to read Bruce’s moods. Desperation is a rare one, but then again, this is a rare situation.

Barbara is silent for a moment, and then a video comes up on the largest computer screen. “This is footage from two days before the Joker’s latest escape from Arkham,” she says. “Evidently, he had a visitor.”

Tim frowns at the screen, watching as a well dressed woman is escorted into the facility.

“There’s no footage of their interaction, but here, this is her leaving the building. We’ve got a slightly better view of her face now.”

The video changes. The footage is blurry, but not so blurry that Tim can’t make out any facial features. The woman is unfamiliar to him, so he stays quiet and waits for Oracle to finish.

“The Joker doesn’t get many visitors,” she says, “especially not just before he breaks out. So, I looked through some old files, and I found this.” Beside the video, a file appears. It is practically empty, but there is a picture that matches the woman in the footage exactly.

“A member of the League,” Bruce states grimly.

“Right,” Oracle says.

Tim narrows his eyes, considering what this could mean. It could mean that Talia wanted Jason gone, but that’s unlikely, considering she was the one to bring him back in the first place. No, the much more likely option is Ra’s. He found out about Jason somehow. Of course he did; he’s Ra’s al Ghul. Keeping something of this magnitude from him would require nothing short of a miracle, even if it was Talia who was trying to fool him.

He glances over at Dick and sees from the look on his face that he is drawing the same conclusions.

Ra’s al Ghul orchestrated the Joker’s breakout. And since Joker failed to eliminate Jason, he is likely going to try something else. Something worse.

“So, hate to interrupt this important-sounding discussion you’re leaving me out of, but he’s awake. Kinda pissed off, but awake.” Tim turns. Steph has appeared at the top of the stairs, regarding them all with a very unimpressed look.

“Has he said anything?” Bruce asks, not turning.

She shrugs. “Not much. He’s pretty bitter, I think, about a lot of things. Didn’t react so well when I mentioned you guys, so I’d be careful with him.” Then she grins. “I think he’s pretty cool, though. We’re keeping him, right?”

There is silence for a moment, until Dick fills it. “We’re damn well going to try,” he states confidently. The words hang in the air for a moment, no one contradicting them. Alfred doesn't even try to correct his language.

“Well then!” Steph exclaims, rubbing her hands together. “Now that that’s out of the way. He wants a phone. Says he needs to make a call.”

“Who?” Tim asks. In all the files they have on Red Hood, there’s not much of anything in the way of relationships with others.

Steph’s grin widens. “That’s where things get interesting. He says he's friends with Roy Harper.”

Tim’s eyebrows raise in shock and beside him, Dick stiffens. “What?” he sputters, and Tim gets the feeling that this is going to be a very, very long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the girls, but I don’t have much experience with writing them, so I hope I did well enough. 
> 
> Next Chapter: In which Jason calls Roy and argues with people. Also, Cass is so done with everybody’s shit.
> 
> Edit 5/13/16: This fic is officially on hiatus. I'm really sorry guys, but I'm just not feeling it at all. Hopefully this'll be a temporary thing and I'll get back into it eventually, but for now, I think I'm going to have to focus on other things for a little while at least. Sorry again. :(


End file.
